


A Familia Connection

by Starkangejr



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Mafia AU, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Nero's age is left intentionally vague, Or as slow as I can handle, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 07:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20131267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starkangejr/pseuds/Starkangejr
Summary: Somewhere on the streets of Fortuna, a young boy--a man, he would argue--is stalking around where he does not belong. He believes himself hidden enough among the shadows, moving from nook to cranny, trying to sneak and skulk as he pulls his hoodie tighter over his face. He knows these streets and alleys like the back of his hand, having grown up navigating them nearly all his teen life. Credo--an older brother he didn’t ask for--would have been upset to find the young boy here, but his curiosity triumphs over his fear of getting caught.





	A Familia Connection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yakyuu_yarou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakyuu_yarou/gifts).

> I turned this into the slowest slow burn that I've ever managed to write and I'm still in pain. These are so good to read but writing it is pure torture. BUT I MUST. Please accept my descent into madness as this Mafia AU idea ran away from me and I produced WAY too much.

Somewhere on the streets of Fortuna, a young boy—a man, he would argue—is stalking around where he does not belong. He believes himself hidden enough among the shadows, moving from nook to cranny, trying to sneak and skulk as he pulls his hoodie tighter over his face. He knows these streets and alleys like the back of his hand, having grown up navigating them nearly all his life. Credo—an older brother he didn’t ask for—would have been upset to find the young boy here, but his curiosity triumphs over his fear of getting caught.

His thoughts momentarily sidetracked, he hears the rustling of a plastic bag being dragged across the floor, the crinkle and scrape of it loud enough to echo across the walls, it's no wonder he found them so quickly. They weren't even trying to hide as he dares to peek out to see the scene unfold. Many of the faceless men are wearing black, all except for one. This guy’s coat is an intense and vibrant red, almost blood-like, a stark contrast to the rest of his henchmen. Which is what the boy calls them. It’s only right because they are motionless as they watch their leader. The young teen stares harder, eyes straining slightly in the darkness, leaning in closer so he can see the finely crafted lines of leather on the jacket’s form. He tries to stay shrouded against the hard concrete, but it’s impossible when he’s so antsy to get closer. His soft blue eyes catch on with mild wonder at the crown of wild and silver hair on the stranger’s head.

It’s just like the boy's own. But he tries not to let that distract him. This guy might be the boss and if he does something, then the kid can catch him in the act worth getting these fools off their streets. The boy watches as the man commands attention with just a stare. The pure energy that ebbs from the stranger is telling. The boy can't decipher the sensation he feels just yet but the wriggling bag inside of the man’s hands, the way that he tugs on it with ease, the blood trail that follows in their wake, is definitely enough to whisper _ Bad Idea_.

It’s too late to back down now though. He already promised the Order, he’d get evidence of gangs dirtying their streets. The Order leaders promised they would help him get the information to the authorities. He simply needed proof. But even this might be too much for him to take on his own. The danger is clear, he can feel it in his bones. He can already hear Credo’s chastising tone, the way he’d mock him for such a poorly planned scheme. He should have brought back up but the boy just shakes his head, resolute in his determination. He just needs to take a picture. One measly picture with a face and evidence; then he’d be in the clear. He readies his cellphone and starts recording. The bag is fitful in its struggle but clearly none of that bothers the bearded man as he swings the massive plastic across the ground and settles it in front of his feet. He crotches down, pulling out a gun from beneath his jacket and resting on his haunches as he starts talking to the bag. The boy can only hear so much, bits and pieces of the clearly one sided conversation.

“..Just tell me where it is…” The bag thrashes and the faint sound of muffled screams reach the boy’s ear. He wonders what’s inside for only a second, clearly guessing that someone’s in there. It’s the only thing that makes sense, unless the thug is pretty crazy to talk to nothing and that would mean the kid is silly for hallucinating the movement of something struggling as well. In his muses, He catches some more insight of what’s going on, his mind distracted by the sudden command coming from the Boss man’s mouth. “..that’s not what I want to hear…Open it.”

One of the lower gang members moves in response and the boy can’t see much in the video as the guy gets in the way. The kid grimaces, looking around himself to get a better angle. He tries to look for something to perch on and finds a trash can that’ll give him the height. The climb is a struggle with his atrophied arm—something he’s had to deal with since he was born, figuring out alternative ways to support his own weight and not damage the nerve shot arm that sometimes makes him feel like a freak. He manages with a quiet huff and barely manages to steady himself before he continues to record what’s going on. The bag is open and there’s someone inside. The new stranger’s face is beaten beyond recognition and he’s tied up like a prisoner in those action movies. He starts begging for his life, pleading with the man not to kill him. It's pretty pathetic. The kid is almost certain this will end in a very unsatisfying way with nothing to show for it.

The gun fire startles him at the first resounding ring, his heartbeat pounding in his chest as he watches the shameless firing into the body. Six shots ring loudly in his ear, deafening and frightening him to the core. The man inside the bag is no longer moving and the boy stares, hands shaking as the killer stands to his full height and makes a gesture at the bag. His men tend to wrapping it back up, zipping it closed again and start moving the corpse somewhere, a pool of blood left in their wake.

It’s pure stupidity that has the kid trying to get a better angle of it all, despite the fear rushing through his veins. He’s determined to catalog everything just to get some dirt on these assholes. No regard for anyone else, they only care about themselves. They deserve to get put away for a long time. Everything is going great until the boy shifts his weight and his perch suddenly becomes unstable. He uselessly tries to grab at the concrete wall, forgetting his hands are full of his phone. It’s one giant mistake after the other. “Oh shit!”

The boy goes down, his phone dropping from his hands as his body slams to the ground with a loud crash. The whine of the metal trash can lid spins and spins as his whole body goes on high alert. His mind races a mile a minute as he tries to focus, looking for the damn phone--with no clue where it could be. He dropped it like an idiot and if he’s not careful, he’ll die an idiot too. His brain and instincts feel like they’re on a loop. He needs to leave. He needs to leave right now, or else he’s going to die and all of this was pointless.

His eyes dart blindly before he scrambles to his feet, finding the damn phone at the last second and when he grabs for it, the stupid thing cuts his hand on the broken glass screen. It falls again and he stifles the cry of pain, glancing back to find the killer is _ looking _ at him. The boy uses all that panic and anxiety fueled adrenaline to rush him forward, forget the phone, maybe they’ll ignore it if he just leaves. He’ll come back later for it. Just go. Gogogogo—The kid can see the alley entrance from here as he turns his body to escape, his legs scraping on the ground as he slams each foot down to drive him forward, closer. Faster, fasterfasterfast—He just has to run and they won’t ever catch up. Unfortunately, out of the corner of his eye, he sees red and his heart leaps in his throat as dread fills his thoughts.

It’s unnatural the way the man moves.

The speed and force alone is enough to scoop the kid off his feet, his startled little cry is his only retaliation. The boy moves on pure instinct, thrusting a hand out for a spastic punch and kicking his legs out like his life depends on it. His heart thuds against his ribs like crazy, the sound of rushing blood fills his ears and he’s going to barf if his stomach doesn’t stop twisting and turning out of sheer panic.

"Scrappy little shit. You lost, kid?" The smooth voice asks, sending a slight shudder through the boy's chest as the man blocks each kick he throws.

"Lemme go!" The young teen fusses, snarling as the man holds him by the scruff of his hoodie collar, off the ground and effectively trapping him. He feels ridiculous. He could wiggle out but then he'd lose his favorite jacket. He’s not exactly looking to go back to the orphanage half naked. "I don’t wanna be touched by some stupid, ugly gangbanger!”

“Ugly? Gangbanger? Now that hurts my feelings kid. You shouldn’t even be here.” The man complains, pushing the hoodie out of the boy’s eyes and staring at him. They share the same shade of silver hair, the length of the boy’s a bit longer and less kept than the adult’s. It’s not like it’s rare or anything but it’s definitely not common to have it all natural like the boy’s. He knows this guy would dye his hair just to look cool. Jerk. The killer stares a bit longer than comfortable and the only way he’s holding himself together from not crying is because he wants this asshole to believe he’s made a mistake. “What’re you doing here, hrm? You got family? Someone know you’re out on the street late at night?”

“No!” Is the boy’s immediate response, afraid the criminal is just going to go after the orphanage. He can’t lead them to Kyrie or Credo and the others. This is his fight. He’ll figure something out, even if he’s scared out of his mind. “M’alone. So lemme go!”

There’s a silence that settles over them and the boy makes the mistake to meet the stranger’s eyes. They’re a stark blue color he isn’t expecting. A strange tingling sensation runs through his veins and it feels like the eyes will look right through him, to his soul or deeper still. Staring back defiantly the boy catches bits of red in there too or maybe it’s just the dim light reflecting off the stupid jacket. The man interrupts his thoughts when he asks, “Got a name kid?”

The boy wants to be tight lipped, he should give something fake and just punch this guy in the face so he can run away and stay out of trouble. The stabbing pain of his hand, the dripping blood as it stains his jeans is a reminder of his evidence. He just needs to escape this guy. “Nero.” He says instead, like an idiot.

“Not a bad name..” The man remarks as he regards Nero with another long, soul questioning look. The douchebag tugs on Nero’s hair and the kid makes a pained noise, trying to swat the hand away from his head. The psycho is staring too much and Nero doesn’t like it. He does the only thing he thinks will make up for the stupidity.

“Yea, well, who’re you supposed to be? Big bad idiot number twelve?” He snaps like a viper ready to strike. Nero never really learned when to keep his mouth shut.

“Hurtful.” The man tsks, glaring for only a second—Nero swearing the color turned full red—before his expression relaxes. Nero blinks and the eyes are normal again. It scares him. The amount of power exuding off this dude who’s just holding him like he weighs nothing. The way the man looks at him, like he’s meat to be sized up. “I’m Dante. And I’m going to be nice for once. You get your skinny ass outta here and don’t say anything, I won’t have my guys follow you home. How’s that sound, huh?”

Nero doesn’t believe him. They’ll definitely follow him home and they’ll do anything to make sure he stays quiet. This isn’t just some street gang full of kids. These were grown adults. His phone screen is cracked but if he can get to it first, he can send the video faster than this guy can kill him. He glares either way, too prideful to know when to back down and pick his battles. “You can’t tell me what to do! I’m not one of your stupid goons. So just get your silly grandstanding over with already and lemme go.”

“Well I guess I’ll just have to take you with me, then.” Dante shrugs, looking him over again. Nero blinks, not expecting that reply. It’s effective in making him stop tossing his fists out like some water surprised kitten.

“You’d kidnap me?” He asks dumbly, still trying to wrap his brain around it. If the guy brings him to their base of operations, then he can tell Credo where they hang out. Probably some rundown, abandoned apartment full of other criminals barely scraping by. They can get the cops involved, they’ll bust these guys up and Dante will go to jail. He’ll be off the streets and it’ll be safe for Kyrie and the other kids to be outside again. He could even pick up his phone when he escapes and use it as extra evidence.

“That’s the price to pay for loose lips kiddo.” Nero sneers at the nickname and he tries to kick out again, but Dante’s much faster and blocks him each time. He looks annoyed when Nero tries to wiggle out of his grip. “So? You going to behave?”

“Fuck you! I’m not scared of you!” He lashes out and Dante lets him go. He’s not ready for gravity to take effect just yet but before his feet—or any part of his body for that matter—can touch the ground an arm wraps around his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. Disoriented, Nero can barely focus on what’s happening as he hangs sideways, Dante effectively tucking the kid under his arm like a bag of potatoes. Nero tries to gut punch him a couple of times, the force of the blows hurting his hands on the abs of steel. Nothing seems to work to get him free from Dante’s crushing grip. He’s out of breath when Dante squeezes him again and within seconds the world is spinning. Nero yelps as he’s tossed inside of a car, groaning as he lands uncomfortably in the back, his elbow spikes with pain as he slams into the divider. He barely gets his bearings when there’s a sudden overpowering weight on his back. Dante’s foot crushing his shoulders and the other knocking his knees down, keeping a hold of Nero against the gritty carpet. The force is too strong and the weight of the pressure makes him afraid his bones will break if he tries to jerk it off.

Nero blinks, shocked at the change in personality and completely regrets misreading this guy. He did just witness Dante brutually murder someone. Nero just thought he’d be spared from the same fate. Dante might have had a soft spot for kids. Big mistake there. Stupidity mostly. He just grumbles under his breath as he stays under Dante’s foot, testing the pressure only once before it crushes him again, stealing his breath from his lungs.

Nero’s thoughts are doing their best to calm him down. He has to believe he will come out on top, that he can escape later, get the cops involved, everything will be okay. That is the only way to live through this. Kyrie could chew his ear off later when he’s home. He just has to deal with Dante’s roughness until an opening for escape shows up.

* * *

Surprisingly, Nero falls asleep under the ever rough pressure of Dante’s resting weight along his backside. He blinks his eyes open when he feels the jolt of the car come to a stop and wake up with a start. He has no concept of how long they were driving, cursing at himself for falling into such a weak lulled state.

Dante wastes no time and starts dragging him out. Nero wants to fight against him, battling the hands as they grab at his legs and roughly roll him out of the car with a simple toss. His ass hits the floor and he curses colorfully as the pain shoots up his spine. Nero glares, the anger boiling hot in his chest as Dante leaves no room for air. The older man grabs Nero’s hoodie scruff once more and hoists him up like he’s nothing. Just some stray off the streets, ready to get rid of it once it becomes useless.

“Ass.” Nero growls, still a little fight left in him. Dante just smirks at him and starts walking. Nero spares a glance at the house, which can’t really be called that, because of the sheer massive size. He doesn’t know another word for it, definitions like mansion seem to pale in comparison. Mega deserved to be in the name, that was for sure. He didn’t realize how much cash these guys were rolling in. He didn’t know they would be so _ organized_. Nero’s so distracted by the massive amount of wealth, balking at the idea of trying to escape from here. He had thought maybe some dirty drug shack, or even worse, a run down apartment, he could just kick down the walls and bug out.

This place is so far from his imagination, he couldn’t make any of this up, even if he wanted to. Nero suddenly realizes—getting the sense that he’s got himself wrapped up in something far worse than some gang of nobodies. These were somebodies. And they had means to last them for _ years_.

His thoughts only circle so far, Nero can’t gain any further insight on how it all works because Dante is forcing him into a room that’s dark and isolated. He hates that he wasn’t focused at following the path of their walk inside. He should have been paying attention. He shouldn’t be in his own stupid head. He’s not safe here. He’s not safe yet. The sting of his hands is enough to drag his attention up at the criminal. Nero glares at Dante, defiant in everywhere he knows.

“Found this back in the alley. Were you recording me?” Dante asks, showing off a phone with a cracked screen. He wiggles it in his fingers, precarious in his grip, but that doesn’t concern the boy in the slightest. Nero watches the red in Dante’s eyes swirl in a way that makes the hair on Nero’s skin stand on end. He swallows hard and keeps his mouth shut. Just shakes his head no, in answer. Dante seems annoyed at that answer.

Dante tries again. “..What’s the pass code?”He leans over feigning a gesture to hand the phone back, but when Nero swipes for it, the asshole is smiling, standing out of reach all over again. Haughty in his red cloak and high and mighty attitude.

“None of your business.” Nero snaps, bristling at the way Dante teases him. Dante doesn’t like that reply—he can tell by the way his face furrows into a deep set frown—so Dante merely puts the phone away in his pocket, moving towards the door of the secluded room.

“Cool off in here then. Maybe I’ll be back.” The door closes and Nero shuffles spastically to his feet. He kicks the door once, twice and then again just because he’s mad at Dante. Nero’s scowl is set as he tries to open the heavy wood from this side, his fingers peeling at the hinges, jiggling the doorknob, anything!

He turns around, looking all over the room to find something—_something_!—to help him out. He sees now a little more clearly since his eyes adjusted to the darkness.The room is cramped, too small even for a dog. Nero wouldn’t even put his worst enemy in here.

He doesn't realize how bad he has it until they start starving him. Some stupid tactic he learned kidnappers use to get their captives to talk. Slowly torture them, get them desperate and then butter them up. Nero’s not stupid, just a little slow. He knows better than to give away the only information keeping him alive.

Days go by.

Nero has nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

Occasionally Dante will stop by, his single question murmured through the door, only to receive defiant silence as a reply. Sometimes Dante will tempt him with the smell of food, the sweet allure of popcorn drowned in butter, or the savory aroma of hot melting cheese pizza. Nero’s mouth goes dry, licking at his chapped lips, thinking what it was like to taste actual food. Nero won't give away his pride however, so he stays, locked up in the darkness. A prisoner of his own making.

The door opens only a fraction of a second and Nero stares at the scrapes from a leftover plate. Rushing to it without thought, Nero digs in and his stomach aches for more. Dante must pity him, because he’s given more scraps the longer he holds out. The kindness doesn’t stop Nero from trying the door every single day. Hoping on some false glimmer of fate, that Dante will forget to lock it one of these days. But every time it’s as secure as stone. There are no windows to speak of inside, nothing sharp enough to cut through the lock or pick at the walls. Nothing.

Nero refuses to cry about it because he's bigger now. He has to be strong, for Credo and Kyrie. When his thoughts trail to them, at his lowest points of extreme exhaustion, it’s a comfort, knowing their safe. He imagines they might search for him—possibly even now, right at this moment—but they have no way to find him. He didn’t leave them any clues. He was so wrapped in his own thing. He wonders if they've given up yet, if they’re sad, or they miss him—how much longer will he be able to live like this.

Even in the lull of his circular thoughts, Nero still he refuses to give Dante what he wants. They can't break him. They never will.


End file.
